


Pillsbury Toaster Strudel

by coffinofachimera



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Body Image, Body Worship, Canon Compliant, Fluff, Friendship, Humor, Insecurity, Liam-centric, M/M, Riding, Smut, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-07 20:02:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6821998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffinofachimera/pseuds/coffinofachimera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>News comes out that Harry’s cut his hair so Liam drops by Harry’s mother’s house for a visit in hopes to catch sight of his new look. When Harry is surprisingly dismayed by his appearance, Liam tries his hand at making him feel better— still not knowing what his hair looks like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my favorite title for a story I've ever written. I wanted to write something warm, funny and cute. I hope you enjoy it!

_NOOOOOOO_

_Lol._

_YOU CUT YOUR HAIR_

_What’s done is done._

_I’m like_

_Proper fucking heartbroken_

_Wtf_

_Everyone is blowing up my other phone_  
_right now._

 _Lmao yeah I figured that's why I texted you_  
_on this one._

_I didn’t know people cared this much._

_(As much as I did)_

_(I’m devastated fyi)_

_How short is it_

_Send me a piocture_

_No._

_I SWEAR IF YOU GOT A BUZZCUT_  
_I’LL NEVER FORGIVE YOU_

_Woah there Liam._

_I’m so sad lol this is nuts like I know it_  
_was for charity so that’s really nice but_

_Send me a pic im gonna die_

_Mate_

_No pictures._

_Who’s seen it??_

_Jusst my mum and sis._

_It’s a secret._

_I’ve got a pap walk in a couple days so…_

_That’s nice I’m not waiting_

_Well you’re gonna have to_.

 

Liam texts Harry a picture. It's the inside of his car, hand on the steering wheel at a red light. Only two emojis for caption. The little devil one, and the sunglasses one.

 

_Liam._

_You’re not coming over_.

 

And Liam sends Harry a selfie this time. Giving an exaggerated smolder in his seat as he presses his face against his seatbelt. _Is he coming over?_ Harry wonders, and finds himself a little annoyed. And curiously enough, excited. And that's annoying, too. He quickly types on his phone.

 

_I’m not home right now._

_Doesn’t matter_

_You can’t come over uninvited!!_

_Im not lol I’m in paris_

_That picture’s old_

_Gotcha_

_You’re not funny._

_Are you with Cheryl._

_In her pussy rn just sayin_

_You’re gross._

_Sorry nan_

_I’m at the hotel she’s sleeping_

_It's dark I can't see her face and I_  
_elbowed her on accident a while_  
_ago_

_Anyway let me see your fucking hair_

_It’s not happening._

_Do you miss your long hair_

_I miss it already_

_Whenever I catch myself about to_  
_cry, I remind myself that time and_  
_reality are subjective and none of this_  
_will matter once I die._

_Or_

_Hair grows back_

_I reckon that’s easjer to remember_

_I really just hate it. My head looks so_  
_fucking weird. I'm wearing hats all_  
_over the house right now._

_I hate how I look lol._

_Blegh._

_But it was for charity so just think about_  
_the little girl who's gonna have hair now._  
_That's a really good thing you did there_  
_you know you gotta focus on positive sides_  
_of things. Because there's always a positive_  
_side to even the shit you just can't stand ya_  
_know._

 _Mum says I look cute. She keeps playing_  
_with my little baby hairs on the back_  
_of my neck._

_I’m coming over right now immediately_

_Ask your mum for permission._

_She is sleeping right next to you, isn’t she?_

 

Liam sends him an unamused emoji with no comment. Harry crosses his legs on the couch, looking down at his phone. He's half expecting Liam to change the subject but nothing comes. He uncrosses his legs and leans over, waiting for a text. An emoji, another selfie. Nothing changes; nothing comes. And he's feeling a little lost. Harry was just adjusting to that comfortable conversation before being left. It feels like ages since he's just talked to someone all quick and stupid. Maybe he shouldn't have made the comment about Cheryl. He reads over his texts again.

_"You're not funny."_

_"You're gross."_

_"It's not happening."_

_"Ask your mum for permission. She is sleeping right next to you, isn’t she?"_

Harry sighs and scrunches his nose. Jesus, I'm rude, he thinks to himself. So many rejections and not just over the hair. He's promised himself no one will see his hair until he debuts it officially through some sort of tabloid or paper. The need to be professional is more of an insecurity at this point. The obscure black and white aesthetic was a hole dug under his feet that's now obligated him to leaving the house when he thinks he looks cute. _'No, Harry Styles doesn't do selfies. This paparazzi man... what an invasion of privacy.'_ So that works. Not that it's a confirmed course of action.

Because Harry hates his hair. No one debuts a demise. He thinks he looks horrible. There's a beanie on his head pulled down all the way to his forehead, and he hasn't taken it off for two days straight except to go to sleep. Even when his mother complements his hair it fails to pacify his peril. Harry's trying to live in a denial right now. If he could hide his head completely that would be great, too. He's finding it hard to look back at donating his hair to charity _without_ regret. Regretting his haircut and regretting the donation isn't mutually exclusive, but he's finding himself to be a less rational man. That's humiliating, too. A beanie to blind himself to the reality of missing nine inches of hair seems to be the only coping mechanism that's working; just not thinking about it.

Harry throws his phone to the side on the couch. It bounces, falls down to the floor with a thump. That gummy green case protected it from damage, Harry sees as he inspects his phone. He'll have to tell Gemma. This _is_ her phone case he stole from her bedroom, after all. Maybe she'll appreciate the update, if she doesn't nag at him again for looking through her things.

"Harry!"

"What?"

"I've served dinner! Come to the table!" his mother calls out from the kitchen.

Harry's been staying with her for over a week now, and she's been on cloud nine babying him like the good old days when he half his height but physically just as big headed. It's funny, Harry rushed to grow up since he was ten years old. And his mother, of course, yielded. But she didn't know what to do with herself, like something had been snatched from her grasp and all she could do was fiddle with her jittery fingers. Harry got the curse of compliance from her. Absence; the two portions of food she was used to cooking she just ate all to herself. _Better keep my skills polished, for when he comes back._ Those years away around the world— it was like she was gnawing at her own bloody bones from how much she was missing, how dusty her nest had become in abandon.

But now at twenty-two it's like Harry's lessened himself again. At least every time he comes over. He wants to be babied so bad. She tucks him in and he doesn't complain. Folds his clothes and he doesn't complain. He's too embarrassed to really ask for it all, not liking the idea of his mother being his slave. More of a saint than a slave— Anne's maternal wisdom is enough to stuff every corner of him gone cold from his own deprivation. It's obvious at least to her; that raw, empty space that yearns and cries just a little. It's been like that— to her knowledge— ever since the group's hiatus. Anne doesn't know much about psychology but she imagines there must be thesis papers written about things like that— childhood, innocence, changes in environment. All she knows for certain is that when she cooks dinner for two she actually gets to put two plates in the dish washer now. And Harry can't stop raving about how amazing her cooking is. And she fills fulfilled, too; two puzzle pieces reunited at last. She hopes he'll never leave.

"Oh, it's not served yet..." Harry sounds like a judgmental elderly woman as he enters the kitchen just to be a pest. He slides his socks across the hardwood floor until he makes it to the modest dining table that makes rejecting visitors a bit easier.

"Shut up, I'm getting them on the plate."Anne is cutting pieces of homemade lasagna with a spatula, carefully scooping them from the glass pan and onto those pretty ceramic plates with the flowers on the rim. They were a gift from Harry, as most things have been for quite some time.

He sets his phone on the table and slides his finger on the screen to unlock. Liam hasn't texted back yet. Harry scrolls through their conversation to read over it again and again. He finds fault in his replies, so quick and boring. He doesn't mean for them to be. He used to be a better texter. It's no wonder people never text back anymore.

"Here you are."

Harry brings his attention to the hearty square of lasagna on the plate in front of him. He grabs his fork and pokes the top. "Is that provolone?" It's a melted white cheese all over the lasagna, with parsley sprinkled on the top so it can look fancy like in the cooking books.

"Mhm."

"Nice."

The knife promptly cuts into it, and the fork scoops a meaty chunk of lasagna away and into Harry's mouth. Two chews in and his mother interrupts.

"Oh, I forgot to get you something to drink."

"I'll get it." Harry pushes his seat back and stands on his feet before she can.

"No, keep eating I'll ge—"

"No!" He sprints to the kitchen like a gangly savanna-native creature— something that's _supposed_ to do a good job at grace. He slips on his socks and nearly loses his balance until he grabs onto the refrigerator's handle. "Oh wow I'm tired," he frowns, surprised when he pants. He looks back at his mother and tells her, "This kitchen is too big."

"Some problem that is. 'The kitchen's just too big!' What a tragedy." Then Anne remembers, "I haven't any wine, by the way."

"Aw," Harry closes the cabinet where his mother kept the alcohol, now empty. She isn't much of a drinker. Just a social drinker, party drinker— like Harry. They both love wine with their dinner. Harry turns his attention to the refrigerator for something to drink. Skim milk, almond milk, orange juice, cranberry juice, apple juice— "What's the apple juice taste like?"

"It's good. Try it."

Harry pulls out the bottle. "Some drinks don't taste good with certain foods..." Innocent Apple Juice. He goes to the nutrition chart, pleased with the numbers. There's a tall glass on the counter so he grabs it, and pours himself a drink.

Then his phone gives a quick jingle, letting him know,

"Someone's texted you."

Harry hopes it's Liam. He grabs his glass and heads back to the table, leaving the bottle of Innocent Apple Juice on the counter in the hurry.

_So your stayin with your mum?_

Harry's so quick to reply he forgets to condescendingly correct his grammar.

 

_Yep._

_Tell her I said hi_

_Greetings from Liam_

 

"Who are you talking to?"

"Liam. He says hi."

"Hi, Liam!" Anne says as if Liam could hear.

 

_Her cookies were horrible but don’t tell her i said that_

 

"He says your cookies were horrible."

"What?!"

"I'm kidding," Harry giggles down at his phone. 

 

_It was Cheryl she took them from me_

_Nobody cares what Cheryl thinks._

_I’ll tell her you said that_

_After she changes your diaper._

_Goodnight_

 

A baby bottle emoji, and a shady moon emoji. Harry frowns, pausing to read over their conversation before replying,

 

_Wait you're going to sleep?_

_Zzzzzzzzz_

_Oh._

 

He thinks of anything he could say to save their conversation. But he decides to surrender.

 

_Okay. Goodnight, Li._

 

"What's he saying?"

Harry sets his phone down, shifting in his seat. He resumes with dinner so he can put his poor texting skills behind him. Eating his feelings; reliving grade school habits. "Nothing. He's going to bed."

"It's five in the afternoon. Where is he? Out of the country, I assume." She takes a small bite from her lasagna and chews quickly.

"Paris. He says it's dark."

And Anne stays quiet, elbows on the table a little. Like she's thinking on something. She frowns when she thinks hard, just like Harry. And their semblance really goes from clear to uncanny. They're both light, wide-set eyes and angular faces with pretty mouths and buck teeth. Fourty-seven and she's still so girlish.

"What?"

"Paris is only an hour ahead. It'd be six in the afternoon. That's not dark."

Harry stops pauses his cutlery on his plate, already dug into his lasagna. He looks at his mother for a while and tries to put together the pieces of her implication. "What, so he's lying? You think he's somewhere else?"

Anne giggles, food still in her mouth. "You sound like your husband's cheating. Like in the movies."

Harry snorts and goes back to eating. Though he can't stop giving it thought— why would Liam lie about being in Paris? If he'd let himself, he'd think, _Hopefully he's not with Cheryl. Left that bitch behind._ Because she's a racist, foul, self-centered old creep, that's why. The only reason why, of course. Harry has no other reason to want her away from Liam.

He's cutting bigger pieces of lasagna and he hasn't noticed, opening his mouth wider than usual to accommodate for the size. Anne's noticed but she takes it as a compliment and contently eats from her lasagna. Silence, right now. Just the faint sound of their chewing.

"I reckon it must be dark in Japan."

Harry nods.

"You almost done, there. Would you like another piece?"

Harry looks down at his lasagna, some few bites away from being finished. "Uh... no, I'm good." _I need to watch my figure._ He's got a belly to complain about again. His early morning jogs on tour stopped serving him well when exhaustion slimmed him down a troubling few pounds extra. And that wasn't a good thing. So he let himself splurge in the highly anticipated hiatus. Pause the jogging; have some ice cream, some chicken and waffles. But that didn't serve him too well either, as far he's currently concerned. He's middle school pudgy again— his true form. Bigger thighs, a rounder belly. It manifested itself in 2014, too, and that was fine. But the L.A. health scene latched on and stamped him with insecurity that he's never quite shaken off. So now his weight is annoying and embarrassing and the lack of hair makes his head look smaller. It's a situation aggravated to a degree outside of his comfort zone. Because it's embarrassing that he's so backwards about the way he feels. Succumbing to the norm, giving into capitalism, following the prejudiced standard of beauty— whatever. He hates it. It's a lot to dislike at every turn when he'd anticipated his first-time free time would be one big cowabunga. The only thing he finds comfort in is one of the many objects of his problematic woe: food.

"Mum this is really good, by the way."

"Thank you, darling."

"Like, amazing."

She grins. "If you'd like any, just ask! There's plenty left."

Harry's phone suddenly jingles again.

"Got yourself a text, there."

It's Liam again. "It's Liam."

"What's he saying?"

Harry blinks down at his phone, confused at the text. And then he slides his phone over to his mother for her to see. "It's just an emoji," he mumbles with a shrug, cheeks full.

"It's the eye emoji. What's that mean all by itself?"

Something suspicious, or secretive. At least that's what Harry's gathered from lurking through the Twitter lingo of their fans. But Harry just shrugs again, taking back his phone and staring at the screen. He's gotten lasagna on it. He pulls down the sleeve of his jumper to try and wipe it off.

And suddenly the doorbell rings.

Anne and Harry both turn their heads to the door. "Who's that at this hour?" Because she hasn't invited anyone. But there isn't fear— not really. Anne's house is guarded behind a gate and you can only get through if you have a passcode. Which she only gives to family members. No fan or stranger has ever come knocking by her door. Sure, there's always a first time for anything. But this doesn't feel like one of them. The doorbell rings again, and Anne gets up from her seat.

Harry isn't so calm and collected. Thankfully the dining room is placed so that no one stepping by the front door can see him. If anyone should ask for him he can stay put and remain in anonymity. But Harry's heart is thumping for another reason. Anticipation, not anxiety. He has a feeling about something. A feeling he realizes he got right when his mother opens the door and greets the visitor at the entrance.

"Liam!"

Harry stays in his seat, drinking from his glass of apple juice. It really tastes a bit disgusting now that he's halfway through drinking the whole thing. But maybe that's some kind of biological reaction to his surprise. His absolutely fierce surprise that vibrates through his skull and knocks his brain around. _What the fuck is Liam doing here?_ This is really entirely bizarre. _He's flown from Paris to London? Is it the hair? My fucking hair..._ Harry brings his hands to his beanie and pulls it down more. He doesn't know if he should be excited, afraid or angry.

 

  
"Mrs. Twist!" Liam grins. Anne looks so nice this evening. Emerald halter and beige sweater to top, hair down, toothy smile. He leans in to hug her, "How are you? Sorry I've come unannounced."

"No, it's fine. I was just telling Harry! I said, he's not in Paris. He told me you were in Paris. On the phone. Text, I mean."

Liam wasn't expecting to be exposed like that. He raises his thick eyebrows, speech delayed for just a second. "...You got me. You certainly did, Anne." He's doing that thing, the in-law charm he can't help where he's all hearty laughs and mannerly speaking. The sun is setting behind him in sherbet and periwinkle blue and it accessorizes his charm. His heart's so happy right now; bouncing and making his fingertips tingle. He can't wait to go inside, say hi to Harry— if he was lying about not being at home. Which he suspects he was.

"How's Cheryl?"

"She's great, she's good. She's receiving this uh, award. It's at this event called The Global Gift Gala. Don't know anything about it, to be honest. But that's why we were in France she's really excited. Fun times! Got my suit, she's got her gown. Red carpet and everything." Liam raves on about Cheryl for a while. It's become a habit, just going on about her to whoever asks even when he isn't even thinking about her. He's unaware of Harry sitting in the dining table, who shoves a two-and-a-half inch square of lasagna into his mouth in hopes he'll choke.

"So she couldn't make it?"

"Oh, no she's stayed back in France. The gala's in two days." He puts his hands in his pocket and shrugs. "Figured I'd come down to visit my folks, you know. I've just come from my parents' place."

"I see."

"Thought I'd pay you a visit!"

"That's lovely! Thank you for thinking of me— Oh, where's Harry... Harry's here!"

"Oh is he?" Liam just got so much pleasure out of lying like that. Too much. Especially since he knows Harry is hiding in the house somewhere, most likely listening to everything he and his mother are saying like the nosy little critter he is. The bit about Cheryl— he wonders if he cared about that. Not that Liam's lied about why he's in London. But he certainly didn't visit Anne's house in a bout of spontaneity, which is the usual for him.

"Harry!" Anne calls out, and Liam peeks his head in through the door. This feels so middle school, high school— coming over to do schoolwork, answering to parents, waiting for permission. But maybe that's just Liam, the whole thing about the other person hiding. He was never invited to the house of a classmate who really wanted his company. Group projects and all that. Always picked last. "Harry it's Liam! Oh, I'm sorry. Come in, Liam."

"Thank you." He steps in, excited when the front door shuts behind him. He's desperate to see Harry. It's been months, it feels like. Or really it could be weeks. Liam really has had the poorest grasp on time during this hiatus. He's dying to see Harry's new short hair, but underneath all that there's a terrible ache to just see him. Visit him. Feel him. The haircut was more like the spark that set the pile of wood ablaze. "Harry come out of hiding!"

Anne turns to him and whispers with a giggle, "He's cut his hair," as if to explain his hobbit complex.

"I saw," he nods. "Online. Is that why he's hiding?"

"It's why you came. Don't lie," Harry says from the very entrance of the kitchen, some feet away from the front door. Liam grins right away, heart hopping in his chest excitedly like a rabbit in the springtime or whatever time it is they thrive.

“There he is!” Liam cheers, ecstatic and with eyes crinkled. There’s Harry. He’s got that chubby smile where he tries to keep from grinning and only succeeds in swelling his face. He’s red, too. Embarrassed or maybe angry. Knowing Harry, he can’t really be angry. Not enough to spoil the mood. Not ever. He's in a white, fluffy jumper and basketball shorts, with a big beanie covering his head like a newborn infant, or Enimen in 8 Mile. It can go either way. He laughs, not expecting him to be hiding it so seriously. Liam wants nothing more than to yank the thing off.

“I knew you were coming.” Harry's trying to sound displeased but his face gives it away.

Liam just points his finger at his head and squats stupidly, trying to look sinister as he lowers his gaze like predator eyeing prey. And he stays that way in stillness and silence. His energy is vivid and wild which is also stupid, Harry's would say. It makes him laugh with endearment Liam doesn't pick up on.

“Liam,” Anne brings a hand to her mouth and laughs when he walks like a crab towards Harry, who slides on his socks backwards against the wall in an escape as indolent as Liam’s pursuit.

“You said you were in France. You lied.”

“Would you believe me if I said I took a plane ride here?”

Harry chuckles. "Yeah. I heard. You're loud."

“What’s this about?” Anne's still standing by the door, shifting eye contact between Liam and Harry. She's smiling, still, over Liam’s surprise visit, but feels very helpless in the suddenly apparent mystery of its context. With Liam walking like a crab and Harry acting disapproving, she's beginning to feel foolish.

“Liam took a plane ride from France to London just to see my haircut.”

Liam is absolutely barely acknowledging his— what he knows is fake— discontent. Because, _God, it feels so good to see him_ , he thinks. Not glammed up in Los Angeles or exhausted out of his mind in a tour bus. Just here, in his mother's house, looking cozy and soft in a sweatshirt, shorts and socks pulled up high. His eyes go soft and Harry notices. It would normally be touching but it's really just such a funny sight, what with him squatting like a crab and pointing his finger at him like a threatening witch.

“That’s ridiculous,” Anne chuckles. “Please tell me you didn’t.”

 _Oh, the plane ride_ , Liam remembers the context. "The world doesn't revolve around you, Harold. I've been looking forward to visiting your lovely mother. And..." he sniffs, "Pasta? Something Italian. I smell marinara!"

“Have you had something to eat, Liam?” Anne is asking the real questions. She walks over to Liam’s side and looks down, placing her hand on his shoulder. “I’ve just made lasagna. Would you like to have some with us?”

Liam lowers his arm and abandons his crab squat as he stands straight. He had dinner on the plane ride over, actually. He really isn't that hungry. “Well thank you, Anne! I’d love to have dinner. Lasagna sounds as great as it smells!”

"You're such a wanker," Harry snorts as Liam passes by him towards the kitchen, gripping his beanie down over his head to protect it from any surprise attacks.

Liam shoots him a look over his shoulder for a devilish grin with eyebrows raised high and sharp. And he points, viciously, to Harry's beanie. Like a declaration of war. "You're mine, bitch," he mouths.

"Oh Harry, you left the apple juice out..."  



	2. Chapter 2

“What is the haircut for? The movie? I heard you're doing a movie.”

“It’s for me to know and you to find out.”

“Did you just quote Matilda...” 

Liam watches Harry tuck himself into his bed, under all his covers until they're snug under his armpits. There's flowers embroidered all over the quilt in blue and lavender with swirls of pink in the background.

"Is this your mum's?" Liam flicks his nail over the floral embroidery.

"No, it's mine."

"It's pretty." His eyes dash back to Harry, watching as he closes his eyes. The bed's the perfect size for him, Liam acknowledges. It's about the only nice thing in the poorly decorated bedroom. Not that it's an empty space— because there really is a lot of things in it. But they're all just random objects sitting on the shelves and floors with seemingly no attempts at proper decorating. He feels like a snob for focusing on that. 7pm right now; it's dark enough for the lamp to be on.

"I'm tired."

Liam knows for a fact Harry likes to nap after a big meal. He saw him finish off a big square of lasagna and apparently that was his second one. So Harry must be must be on the road to a good slumber, cuddling into his pillow. "Oi. Don't go to sleep on me," Liam warns him.

"Why did you come over."

"I told you, I was in town. I wanted to see you."

As if on instinct Harry's hands fly up to his beanie just in time for Liam's sudden attack on his head. Liam finds it amusing, laughing as Harry struggles and yells, "No!" But quietly because he doesn't want to bring his mother's attention to them. He kicks under his bedsheets in a futile attempt to get Liam off. Liam successfully has a grip on the fabric of the beanie and tries to pull it off as he pushes his weight on top of Harry. But Harry rolls down the beanie until it's covering his face. And he keeps his grip tight, so there isn't any progress when Liam pulls on it. Just stretching out the fabric up on top. Harry keeps protesting, muffled under the beanie, “No! Liam, stop! Leave my hat!" Elbowing as he squirms, fighting to keep his hair covered.

"It's just hair! Let me see!" He pulls on the hat harder, his bicep clenching. And Liam is the strongest of the two, it's just now starting to show. The beanie slowly slides up Harry's mouth and nose as he claws to bring it down.

And now Harry's angry, desperate as he yells, "I'm fucking serious, don't!" And he does sound serious about it, bringing both his arms up over his head as he tries to duck under the covers. "I'm gonna call my mum if you don't— Mum! Mum hel—"

Liam scoffs with the roll of his eyes. "Alright, alright!" And he raises both his hands to surrender, moving away from Harry as he takes a few steps away from the bed. Harry stays under the covers. Shifting around as he fixes his hat, no doubt. "It's just hair, you twat." This escalated quickly, to his dismay.

And Harry's head pops up. "Fuck off. If I don't want you to take off the hat then don't take off the fucking hat. Don't be a dick." He's frowning, voice dragging on the ground.

Liam widens his eyes down at the ground before rolling them in the back of his head again "Sorry." He’s aggravated, though he really has no place feeling that way. He can’t just show up unannounced to Harry’s mother’s house and really argue seriously about seeing Harry’s new haircut. Fighting, trying to yank off the hat. Liam’s picked up on what he knows is a sense of entitlement over a haircut, and that’s the last thing he wants. The realization transfers as a frown on his face and a sigh blown through his nose. He’s stupid but really so is Harry, getting theatrical over his secret haircut. Hiding it for a big reveal. If Harry just wasn’t so serious about his hair Liam wouldn’t make an ass out of himself. But that’s what he gets for assuming things. _Took a plane to swerve out of my lane_ , Liam can hear himself snort in his head. If he was smart he’d jet back to France and go back to minding his business. But that’s if the haircut really was the only reason he wanted to see Harry. He wonders if Harry believes that.

But still, he can’t help but push for clues. Because he’s annoying and it makes Harry amusingly disapproving. Liam walks over to his bookshelf, half-full with obscure knick knacks and books. Liam spots the Harry Potter series and oo's silently. They’re all covered in thick dust. Only the first two books have fingerprints on the spine. “So you never take off your hat, Professor Quirrell?”

"Shut up."

"What, it's not like you're bald... Are you?"

"No."

"My hairline is receding, too."

"Shut _up_."

Liam sighs, looking through the rest of the bookshelf. The Phantom Tollbooth, Number the Stars, Of Mice and Men, a tiny framed photo of Frodo Baggins, an SAT studying guide, Holes.... “This is like a high school teen movie, innit?" He turns his attention to Harry again and takes a seat at the very end of the bed by his feet. “Like, it’s just such a trope. Kelly Smith gets a bad haircut and refuses to take her hat off at school, yeah?"

“Kelly Styles.”

“Oh, you know, that happened in Princess Diaries as well. Do you remember? Anne Hathaway wore the little blue hat to school. She was hiding her hair because she looked so good.”

“That’s such an obscure reference,” Harry laughs.

"What, did they give you a hack job?"

"No," he shifts in his bed, cuddling deeper into his bedsheets. "I just look bad."

"What are you hiding under there?" Liam moves closer, careful not to make any sudden movements, like trying to regain the trust of a skittish cat you accidentally stepped on.

"I'm hiding... _You-Know-Who_."

"I mean, you don't think you're ugly do you? Like seriously?"

Harry tucks his arms under his covers and stays quiet, flower-embroided sheets up to his chin. Now it’s just his head in view. He’s ridiculous. A single line creases between his eyebrows as he looks up at the ceiling with a pout. "It doesn’t…” he mumbles slow. “My hair's too short. I look like Tommy Pickles. And I've gotten fatter. I told you—I texted you, I look bad. The end."

“What?” Liam frowns. When he read over Harry’s texts about wearing hats all over the house he actually thought he was joking, throwing out melodrama for a laugh.

He feels something in his chest, suddenly. Like a flutter or a blink of light. He looks at Harry and thinks to himself again, _You don't think you're ugly do you?_ Because that would be absurd. Beyond absurd. Harry's the poster child for confidence. He’s the one Liam looks to for pointers on how to domesticate the mess of his self image. Always so eccentric and careless. A show-off, a beaming presence like a flame dancing in a dark room. Harry loves nothing more than praise, attention, compliments and being spoiled. It's obvious, now, the contrast between that and now, watching him hide under hats and sweaters and sheets. And Liam really, _really_  hates it.

"You're pretty. Don't think you're ugly.”

"Don't do that."

Liam frowns. "Do what?"

"The 'You're beautiful to me' shit..." Harry says plainly. "It's not... good. Like, you shouldn't do it."

"I'm not trying to be _smooth_ or sneaky or anything. Jesus." Liam is defensive. He wasn't thinking about something like that at all. "I just mean you've got nothing to feel bad about it's not— it's not about _me_. It's not about how I feel." Regardless of his frustration he doesn’t let himself sound serious about what he says. "You are... beautiful, Harry Styles." Like maybe talking to a child. A counselor’s tone. He brings up his knee so his thigh rests on the mattress while the other leg holds his balance on the floor. “Not just outside, you know. You can’t actually think you’re suddenly ugly over hair.”

Harry turns his head down to look at Liam. Now his expression is a little different. He looks sorry about something— done or yet to be. He slides up his hand from under his bedsheets and scratches the side of his nose and says with just a sprinkle of somberness's shade of blue, “Why else would everyone be sad it’s gone?”

Liam furrows his brow. And Harry immediately regrets saying anything.

"Aaaaah Jesus do we have to talk about my hair only? You don't care to chat with me about anything else, Liam? You hate me that much, yeah?" He's deflecting and that's how Liam knows he's getting too serious for him to handle. Bothers him more, knowing this is too close to a vein to touch. Because it shouldn’t be there. Liam purses his lips and scratches his beard with freshly manicured nails, forgetting how Cheryl will be angry he’s gotten grime under them again.

"Close."

"What?"

"Your eyes."

"What? Close my eyes?"

“And put out your hand.” Liam reaches behind his back, amused at how quickly Harry pushes his bedsheets off his chest as he sits up and holds out his hand.

“Oh, right,” he closes his eyes. "Wait, this isn't a trick is it? To take off my beanie?"

"I'm not that big of an asshole. It's a gift. Close your eyes." Liam lifts his ass and reaches into his back pocket to pull out his gift. He wipes away his grin as he carefully places the small object in Harry’s hand. His expression is plain and serious now, ready for when Harry opens his eyes. “Okay, open them.”

Harry finds in his hand a little warm square the size of his palm, wrapped in a paper towel. Liam watches closely as he carefully unwraps the paper towel, waiting to see his reaction. And at last, the gift is revealed. Harry's mouth hangs open just a little bit, blinking down at his hand.

"It's a French delicacy," Liam tells him seriously.

"It's a Pop Tart."

"A Pillsbury Toaster Strudel, actually. See, because it's warm. I put it in the toaster."

Harry inspects the— yes, strudel. It's a Pillsbury Toaster Strudel. Crumbled and squished, Harry notices, but doesn’t realize it’s because Liam was sitting on it. Although, he suspects something of the sort from the frosting sticking to the paper. Harry can’t seem to draw an expression. “We have this in our freezer they don't... Liam... Liam did you make a Pillsbury Toaster Strudel in our kitchen?" Liam doesn't have to answer. Because they don't sell Pillsbury Toaster Strudels in the UK. Harry brought a box with him on the plane over from California. "What the fuck!" He breaks out into a cackle that squeezes his pitch high and his eyes shut. "When did you make a fucking _strudel_ today?!" He drops back down onto his back and wails that honky laugh.

"It's for me to know and you to find out."

Harry pipes down slowly, hands going to his tummy as he lets out a stream of giggles. This is nice. Liam just loves this. He looks down at Harry, so damn cuddly and warm and soft. _He's so fucking cute_ , Liam thinks, watching Harry's little doubled chin as he squishes down into his bed. He wonders if he's cold. He must be. Harry always is. "I can't eat this," he says as he sets the Pillsbury Toaster Strudel on his chest.

"Eat it. It'll raise your spirits."

Harry sort of grunts and picks it back up, staring at it before his eyes. "Want some?" he offers Liam first.

"I wanna crawl into bed with you."

"No." Harry takes a bite of his warm, toasty strudel. "Mmm this is good. Haven't had one in a while."

Liam gets up and stands by the side of the bed. He pokes Harry in the arm. "I'm cold, let me get into bed."

"You haven't showered."

 _Oh. Can he tell?_ Liam wonders, but protests regardless. "Yes I have! There's enough room. Pleease..." Carefully he reaches for Harry's bedsheets and lifts them. He sits his ass on the mattress, slowly sliding closer.

“Take off your socks.”

“ _Yesss._ ” That didn't take much. While Liam takes off his socks Harry moves over on the bed to make room for him. He adjusts his hat lower without Liam noticing. “This is so comfy...” Liam sighs once he’s under the covers— barefoot, as requested. He didn't realize how cold he was until he’s in the impossibly warm pocket that is Harry’s bed. He also didn't realize how much the trip from Paris to London took its toll on him until a feeling of relief washes over him. It must be Harry's body heat—all kinds of therapeutic, with warmth and whatever other auras that radiate. Liam sighs again, moaning as he writhes, “It’s so warm and toasty...”

“Speaking of which,” Harry elbows him and mutters, somewhat of a whisper, barely moving his lips, “How the fuck did you make this toaster strudel? And keep your voice down my mum's out of the shower. She's hanging around now."

"Oh so that's where she was. Uh..." Liam turns his head to Harry, who really is eating that toaster strudel while lying on his back, flaky crumbs all over him. “You’ve made a mess, Styles.” Liam follows in the example of his hushed tone.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Well... I mean, I just put it in the toaster.”

“ _When?_ ”

So Liam tells his story, detailed, funny; wanting to make Harry laugh.

Yes, he spotted a box of strawberry Pillsbury Toaster Strudels in the freezer when he went to get ice for his soda during dinner. The toaster was right next to him. He had the nerve, really, to slide a strudel in the toaster and go back to the dining table to finish his lasagna as if nothing happened. He really expected someone to notice when it popped out the toaster but no one did. They did the dishes, cleaned the counters— and no one noticed the freshly prepared strudel in the toaster. Not even the smell. Liam grabbed it before following Harry up to his room, truly forgetting it until he suddenly needed a gag to distract Harry and ward off bad vibrations.

They're both laughing now. Because Liam didn't acknowledge how asinine the whole story was until he actually said it out loud. Harry's always had the most contagious laugh, and the most gorgeous smile. Having him so close makes it worse. They keep shushing each other and giggling like teenagers at a sleepover, trying not to wake their parents so they don't find out they're up past their bedtime.

"Oh God, this is weird..." Liam smiles up at the ceiling, bringing a hand to rub over his face, giggling.

"What is?"

"We're millionaires..."

"No we're not. I'm twelve years old. I've got geometry tomorrow."

"It's quite nice this is just, like... " He writhes on the bed and gives a big sigh. "Like if nothing's changed." Like they've turned off the lights and left the room of Liam Payne and Harry Styles of One Direction, and picked up where they left off. Do some maintenance, clean the dust off their hometown humanities.

"You're fun to hang out with," Harry smiles as he takes a bite from his Pillsbury Toaster Strudel; two more bites and it's gone. The air from his bedroom has made the jelly cold. "Even if you only visited to look at my haircut."

Liam narrows his eyes and scoots himself up a little, body tilted towards Harry as he leans on one elbow. "I didn't only do it for the hair. Told you." He's a little closer now, and surprisingly Harry hasn't brought up his hands to protect his beanie. Maybe he trusts Liam. Or maybe it's the strudel. He seems to like it a lot. "Can I have some of the stru—"

Harry pops the last bit of the toaster strudel into his mouth and snorts, eyes going wide. "Sorry!" he laughs with his mouth full. His mind was absorbed in the strudel and he ate the last bite before Liam finished his sentence.

"Wow."

Harry chews and apologizes for it, red faced, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to." And he giggles, crumbling the toaster strudel's paper towel and tossing to the floor.

"Always... always disrespecting me."

Mouth full, Harry says, “You're the one who attacked me and tried to yank off my beanie," while, oddly enough, pulling his beanie higher up so it isn't covering his forehead. It's only halfway down his ears now, covering just a bit of his big forehead the way normal people wear their beanies—in the winter. But it's better than the Eminem newborn fusion from before. Harry keeps his head lifted from his pillow while making the adjustments on his hat until he's satisfied, afterwards dropping his head back again. And just then, suddenly, a single tiny curl pops out from under the beanie, just beside Harry's ear.

And Liam's heart stops.

It's short. That tiny little strand is short. The rest of his hair must be, too. Maybe shorter. Liam’s face is twisting into the most bemused smile so he looks away fast and tries to wipe it off. If he brings attention to the little curl Harry will notice and wrap a bedsheet around his whole head. Liam points his attention to the crumbs on Harry’s jumper, instead. Picks them off one by one. But he keeps the memory of the little curl frozen in his head like a photograph, helpless to the wave of emotions that are dense with a reality that's come from out of that tranquil blue: Harry cut his hair. Liam feels elderly and sensitive, weak to a sudden surprise. And he has to wonder, how attached must he be to Harry to feel emotional over a haircut? To the loss of... hair. Hair he'd held onto beyond touch; caresses, not-so-platonic tugs. There's a story, a memoir, to every part of Harry, really. He realizes that. From his lashes to his lips to his hips— a scripture for every touch of skin. But a living, breathing picture comes at the beck and call of a thought, too. It must be why Liam felt entitled to that professional update when he found out Harry cut his hair. _Weird_ , he thinks. Things like that always live deep under his surface without him knowing. _Don't they always._ He wonders what Harry would think if he ever knew. He can't help but think he'd like it. _I feel like a fangirl._

It suddenly feels so hot under the covers.

"It's fucking stupid if you really think you're ugly because you've got short hair."

Harry furrows his brow and looks at Liam, jokingly offended. “Excuse me."

"Like, I don't know if you think your appeal is gone or something, but it's not." Liam's nearly hovering over him, propped on his elbow while his arm rests on Harry's pillow as he looks down. He brushes off the remaining sprinkles of strudel on Harry's cheeks. His skin’s so soft, just a little flushed. Liam likes looking at his eyes. That light green he's secretly jealous of. Liam whispers again, “You're Harry Styles.”

“Thank you, I had no idea.”

“You’ve got to be the most fit guy ever.”

“Why do you care?"

"I hate that you think you're ugly."

"It's supposed to be what makes me beautiful.”

“Like, your whole face could melt off and I wouldn’t care. You know? Not that this is about me but I just want you to know. You’re my best mate. It doesn’t matter to me.”

“Little Things by One Direction. _If I let you knooww I'm here for you, maybe you'll looove yourself like I_ —"

Liam kisses him. And it feels like chocolate melting under a flame. Harry stays completely still. Stunned. Kissing back. Liam’s head is almost totally horizontal to Harry’s, their lips kissing criss-crossed. He puts his hand on Harry’s neck and caresses across his jaw. The echo of his beating heart pules in his throat right under Liam’s fingers.

And he breaks the kiss. "You know... Your voice trembles you're sad. Or sort of sad. I just noticed," he whispers against the corner of Harry’s lips, against his cheek. "You talk and it's like... like when your hands are shaking. That's your voice."

Harry’s breathing in his pause; empty like maybe blinking into a void, or dizzied by flashing lights. “I can’t help it.” He rubs over his eyes, lets his head tilt so it rests against Liam's.

"Your mouth tastes like a Pillsbury Toaster Strudel by the way."

Harry grins stupidly. And Liam shifts on the bed so his chest is on the mattress, elbows keeping him up as he looks at Harry.

“I don’t like… not liking the way I look.”

His stubbly face nuzzles against Harry's cheek, soft brown eyes blinking with quiet concern. “What can I do?” There’s a wall that’s come down and it's not the first time. Two emotions see each other and cross over with a greeting like friends torn apart now reunited. Long time no see. Go in for the big hug, now.

"My mum's gonna hear us.”

“If I fuck you?” Liam wishes he could take that back.

Harry stays quiet and Liam doesn’t know what he’s gonna say, if he’ll say anything at all. But he does. And it’s a whisper, like it’s all been. “I’m so shallow.” It’s like he says it to himself, rubbing his eyes again like Liam can't tell he's just anxious.

“You’re not.”

 _'Perfection, you know... beauty is just a social construct,'_ Harry's own voice manifests and looks him in the eyes as an irony. Because if he gets deep— that is, overdramatic— about this, the message becomes ominous: He never can manage to be the person he wants to be. Stuck in a permanent relapse that hides behind the inspiring gospel of a progressive mind that really isn't his own. He tries to better, climbing steep ledges up towards his goals. But he hides that effort like safety pins on a pretty dress. His values are often fragmented, duplicated, thinking that if he holds them close long enough they'll evolve and become a part of him. But it doesn't stick, much less merge. Harry thought it would by now. Liam is less surprised. Emotional progress like that never comes when you want it to. So it's disappointing for him, Liam figures. He can understand. Short-haired and packed with a few extra pounds and Harry feels like shit, and that must feel like a slap in the face to a lot of things.

Liam wants to help with that gospel. If only because childhood trauma's bound him to _caring_ too much and all the time and sometimes to a fault, sometimes to the aggravation of others. Because letting someone he loves go by feeling alone is something he doesn't want to risk. Harry's too lazy in his melancholy to make the effort to tend to his own needs, sometimes. Too deep to reach without strain. Liam wants to preach the way Harry likes to preach. But not like a tweet, or an article that praises him for profit. Liam wants to murmur it against his chest, wants to push it warm between his legs. _Who does?_ he wonders. _I bet they can't do it like me._  But right now Liam is feeling insecure about his assistance— of sounding selfish or sneaky or backhanded, what with the negative notoriety of Little Things threatening to stain what he wants to be a good intention. 

"Will you talk to me?” Harry tells him so casually it sounds weird.

“What do you mean?”

Harry pulls down the covers until they’re down to his hips. Liam lifts his head to see what he’ll do. And he watches him lift his jumper up, not really showing anything, before grabbing Liam's hand and tucking it under and resting it on his stomach. Liam starts rubbing it because of course that’s what Harry wants. Touch; Liam feels how soft his skin is, moving his hand mindlessly under the sweatshirt to feel other parts. His hips, his waist—even his chest, a little. “…Say nice things…” Harry whispers. “About me?”

It's hard to be anything but quiet. Because Liam is confused and helpless, feeling like his hands are tied in the face of what feels like an irony. In an awkward haste he teases with a snort, "What happened with Little Things?"

Harry gives a little smile, looking to the side. But it isn't because he's feeling particularly good about anything. The words come quietly. "Don't make fun of me..."

Sometimes people can't help but find comfort in the things they know they're not really supposed to. Because they're still trying to get the hang of it. But you need a break sometimes. And sometimes that means falling backwards into error because it's comfortable. Knowing better is what makes it sting; to voluntarily disappoint a greater cause. Right now Harry would feel better if Liam, yes, told him nice things about the way he looks. Comfort harvested from co-dependency and not that glorious self-reliance that crowns you the sovereign of your own happiness. Fine, Harry's weak. Fine, this is a shallow and unhealthy habit to indulge in. But he doesn't do it all the time. It's easy and he needs to feel better right now. Harry feels itchy and squirmy like he wants to go outside and run for a long time. _'Don't make me do that,'_ he'd tell Liam. _'I feel so good here with you right now.'_

"Sorry." Liam is all too sure of what to say as he swallows. "I get it. It's alright," he tells him with a smile. Harry kicks off his bedsheets and tucks his legs out from under them. Liam rummages through his head for a thought, a phrase—something to say. Anything to say to light a spark and keep going. “I like your tummy…” He crawls over to take place between Harry’s legs. “Where’s your tummy…” And he lifts Harry’s jumper all the way up to his chest. “There it is.”

Liam’s face feels like it’s burning. Harry’s legs are around his hips, basketball shorts sliding up his strong thighs. Liam isn’t thinking, or maybe he’s thinking so much it blurs together into a pitch so dense it’s silent. Either way he’s babbling in whispers like a drunk as he squeezes Harry’s thighs and his squishy belly. “These are just the loveliest… things. I just love them.” His head hangs, swallowing as he looks down. Laurels, the bottom half of a butterfly. Liam wants to see the rest. He yanks up Harry’s white jumper until it’s up to his collarbone, eyes fixed to his flushed pink chest. “This is like…” Liam slowly drops his weight forward, propped on his hands. He swallows, pushing away embarrassment that tries to show him the way to reason. Because he has to touch— he wants to. He runs his open palm over Harry's stomach and up to his chest; up and down, up and down. This feels sensual, maybe because it’s so slow. Like he’s savoring, touching over parts that he knows Harry is sensitive to. “Mate, nobody’s got a body like this...” Liam lets his hand stop just above his heart, mesmerized by its pulse if he wasn't dazed enough already. “Nobody.”

Harry's getting hard. Just a little, but Liam notices—that small, growing press between his legs. A shiver runs under his skin, surprised at its presence. And he can’t help teasing,

"You liking this?"

Harry's lets out a little giggle, turning his head away as he rubs over his eyes. Liam's heart feels like it's simmering—it's out closer to the surface than before. It's feeling everything more.

"Yeah? You're such a baby." He's slowly dropping his weight on top of him. And once there, face to his chest, he starts kissing it; slow, open mouthed. Liam lips drag over Harry's nipple before he takes it in his mouth, suckling on it while he plays with the other one. Harry’s breath hitches, his hand on the back of Liam’s neck. His nipples get hard, filling Liam’s mouth just a little as they become puffy. Liam switches to the other nipple and sucks a little harder. He squeezes Harry’s whole pec like he wants to feel it pressing into his face, and feel how Harry sticks out his chest in a silent beg for more. Liam doesn’t know why he loves suckling on his tits so much. Harry's nipples are impossibly sensitive. Liam likes being unkind to them; sucking too hard, dragging his teeth. He can hear a faint whimper to every breath Harry takes, hands holding his jumper up to his collarbone as he keeps his eyes closed, cheek nuzzling into the pillow. Liam kisses each nub, flicking it with his tongue until Harry’s chest is trembling as he pants. And then he stops, giving a few more suckles to Harry’s fat nipples before moving along. He finds himself being extra gentle now, bringing Harry down from shivers and twitches until he’s taking deep, slow breaths. He rubs his hands up Harry’s sides slowly then brings them back down. His body is all gentle curves like a countrytown hillside. "I could live here," Liam hums with eyes closed, squeezing Harry's fleshy hips hard as he leaves blind kisses over his stomach. _What do I even mean?_ And Liam's jeans are feeling tighter on his groin. "God, I could live here... Why are you so perfect... shit..."

With eyes closed he can pretend that Harry isn’t listening. That he isn’t really there. That this is another night’s wet dream and he’s monologuing in an empty room. Not a sound. There’s a fear that any moment Harry will push him off and go, _“Stop, what the fuck. What are you doing? That’s not what I meant,”_ and Liam will shrivel up along with his arousal, take the first plane ride to France and never speak to him again.

"Shit." _I'm losing it, here._

"You okay?"

“Try not to talk.” _Or else I snap out of this._ Like a window or a trance. "Please. Sorry."

Liam never realizes how delicate this state is until a word sets him off and he’s going soft with shame. It isn’t easy crossing a line he’s cemented for so long. But he’s found that crossing is easy when it’s with Harry. Liam swears he’d run over a river of lava to get to this, where they are now. The problem is staying there. The problem is not looking down.

"Am I doing good?"

"Yeah," Harry chuckles, and then grinds his hips up against Liam's stomach so he can feel his erection. "Very good."

Liam grins, nodding to himself. Harry gets off on praise—noted. "You're so sexy... This is weird." And then he kisses him. And Harry kisses him back harder, playful, his confidence settling into the moment. Liam's heart is beating so fast it's making his head spin and his kisses clumsy. He digs his fingers under the waistband of Harry's basketball shorts, digging a little more to grab hold of his underwear, too. The momentum rocks back and forth, making him go, stop. Decisions come awkwardly and suddenly. Liam pushes himself off upright and hooks his arms under Harry's knees, moving them from around his hips so he can bring Harry's legs together and then push them towards his chest. This is how Liam gets him naked from the waist down. Harry giggles a little helplessly, remembering to keep quiet so his mother doesn't hear them. He drops his legs and wraps them loosely around Liam. Harry looks up at him, green eyes glassy, waiting for it.

"Oh, look at you..." Liam can't help but give a giggle because he can't believe he's saying this all out loud, even if it's just a whisper. The room is so, so silent. It's just them breathing and hushing their intimacy back and forth. His cheeks are red, lips flushed from the kisses. "You're so beautiful..." _I'm really saying this_ , he's trying to believe. He looks at Harry for what feels like the first time, watches how he just smiles because he loves being praised like this, drowning in adoration. _Keep going,_ he tells himself as he touches Harry's body. "Look at you..." Like pointing at a wondrous view, a horizon, a ninth wonder. He finds that he likes saying it to Harry's face, watching the sparkles and twinkles blink in his green eyes with every word. He's humbled by it. No one's ever talked to him like this before. "You're an angel." And Harry laughs, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles again. Old school tattoos on a flawless, full silhouette. Torso broad and hips small; cock fat and hard and pink at the tip. Harry starts touching himself so Liam can watch that, too. Precum rubbing along his shaft making his dick shiny. Liam feels like he gets off on praising him. He doesn't remember being this hard. He has to unzip his jeans and push his underwear down to let his cock spring out. Heavy, hard; it bobs and slaps against his stomach and he reaches down to stroke himself, goosebumps running under his skin.

"I wanna ride you," Harry whispers suddenly, licking his lips.

Liam slowly rubs up Harry's thigh, close enough to his balls to tease. "So I can watch you?" Of course it's so he can watch.

Harry grins, bottom lip tucked under his front bunny teeth, "Yeah... And touch me, and call me pretty things while I bounce on your cock..." That was bold. But Harry says it so slowly and quietly he almost sounds sleepy. All dreamy. Liam feels dizzy. He didn't see this coming. It pushes against him and he's left breathless. He'd stopped with wishful thinking after Harry refused to show him his new haircut. Liam wonders if this is all still about him being insecure about hair that turned out to mean too much to him, too. Now they're going to have sex. And he wonders, how many times are they going to do that as friends before it starts to mean something? Or, at least, that they acknowledge it already does. Wishful, unrealistic thinking again.

"I've got a... hold on," Liam tells Harry as he reaches into his jeans' pocket and pulls out a metal cigarette case.

"You're gonna smoke?"

He pops it open and pulls out a Durex condom—one of two.

“You came prepared? Jeez.”

 _Weren’t for you. They’re for Cheryl,_ Liam does Harry the favor of not telling him, and instead just chuckles as he puts the cigarette case back in his jeans before he pulls them down to his ankles. And then he rolls he and Harry over until he's on his back and Harry sits on top of him. Bent down; chest to chest, bare skin of their stomachs rubbing against each other. Liam drops the condom next to him and focuses back on Harry. Harry’s excited; rolls his hips so Liam's cock slides over his hole, stretched out because he's been bored and lonely all these months on break. All morning, specifically. Liam's panting, mind cloudy enough in his overwhelm that he thinks about how crazy it is that he's gotten hard enough to fuck from touching Harry and calling him pretty. He runs his hands down to his ass, squeezing and spreading him open. Sparks are flying down his groin when he hears Harry whimpering right next to his ear. And Liam whispers, "I haven't felt you like this in forever," wondering afterwards if that counts as praise.

"I've missed you..." Harry's eyes are shut tight, brow furrowed as he nuzzles into Liam's neck and grinds his ass on his dick. He gives Liam a quick peck on the lips before he sits up and tries to get his back straight so he can breathe better. Rolling his hips on Liam's lap as he looks down, dragging his fat balls back and forth over his stomach. He lifts up his jumper and it's so considerate of him. Harry's belly sticks out like he said he would when he talked about gaining weight, making his cock point out just a little more than in. Liam wishes he spent more time kissing it.

Harry reaches for the condom. Cliched on purpose, he rips it open with his teeth and tosses the wrapper to the floor. Liam can see how his hands are trembling, fumbling with the lube-glazed condom before he reaches his hand behind him for Liam's erection. He's rolling it down so skillfully. Liam can only keep his eyes on Harry as he breathes harder. Those slick strokes on his cock make his fingers twitch and his toes curl. Not just because of how it feels, but because he keeps thinking about how Harry's gonna sit on it and fuck himself until he's unraveled into a mess with his cum sticking to Liam's chest. And he's gonna look so beautiful, and Liam's gonna get to see for the first time in a long time.

"You know if I..." Liam swallows, his face red and damp from what he doesn't realize is a sudden strike of recklessness. He places his hands on Harry's hips, eyes fixated on his leaking cock for a moment before he looks back up to Harry. "If I didn't... know any better I'd... I'd say I was in love with you..." This has to be the first time Liam's ever said it. But he doesn't know if he means it—because he doesn't know what it means. He thinks, it must be because he's just not a very bright guy, as he's been told. But he doesn't want to think of himself that way. He wants to believe he knows what he's doing. Knows what he wants. Knows what he says. _I'm not lying_ , he tells himself almost defensively. _I'm not stupid._

Harry just grins with the scrunch of his nose. "Heyy..." He doesn't look at Liam when he says that, keeping his gaze low because he wants to hide how bright he's smiling as he giggles. Because he can't stop smiling, head hanging down as he rolls on the condom onto Liam's dick. Liam doesn’t know what that means but he isn't regretting this as much as he thought he would. He feels distracted right away. Especially when he feels the tip of his cock sliding inside Harry’s ass.

Tighter than he thought he would be. "Fuck..." he breathes and drops his head back onto the pillow, looking up at the ceiling.

Harry's brow is furrowed as he watches him, pumping his dick hard at his sight. And it's overwhelming him; that it's all happened so suddenly, that they're the same two friends who were goofing off on his bed just moments ago and now he's feeling his dick inside him. It makes his own dick throb, his ass tighten around him. "You're so hot, Li" he breathes, dropping his weight forward until he's holding himself on his palms as he adjusts to Liam's girth. He lifts his hips and sits back down slow as he stifles a moan.

Liam brings his hands to Harry's fat ass to spread his cheeks. "God, you feel perfect..." Grabbing at all the flesh, shaking it so bounces. He looks up at Harry with an amateur kind of mesmerism, in awe of how Harry responds to him. Naked in nothing but that jumper, sitting on his cock.

Harry starts up rhythm, managing the roll of his hips. Arches his back and lifts his ass up all perky as Liam's cock slowly slides out of his hole. And he brings his hips back down a little harder, and stays there feeling full. Harry moves his hips in long strokes with eyes shut tight, Liam's cock sliding in and out until just the head's inside, again and again, harder and harder. And then he comes down hard, sitting, rolling his hips with eight inches of cock inside him as his breath trembles past his lips. Liam hisses through his teeth and grips Harry's hips so tight it'll leave marks. Or bruises, maybe. And now Harry's bouncing up and down with wet, noisy slaps between his legs. Coming down heavy and gaining momentum as he rides Liam. Squeezing down; tight, hot and wet inside.

"Oh _shit_..." Liam's eyes roll back, spine arching and toes curling.

Harry's holding himself with no hands, now; bouncing frantically as he fucks himself. He isn't looking to make this last, fisting his cock so hard it's drooling precum onto his knuckles. He breathes hard and whimpers every once in a bit by accident. It has to be the sweetest thing Liam's ever heard. It's getting hard for either of them to be quiet. The sound of the sheets stirring and the bed squeaking are getting company as the minutes pass on; whimpers, grunts, moans.

Harry lifts his sweatshirt and begs so breathlessly as he looks down, "Touch me..." Green eyes lined with red from the haze of sex. Liam pushes the fabric up to his armpits and does what he's told. But it's what he wants, too. For his palms to feel the warmth of Harry's skin and the sting of electricity that comes with it. His tummy, his soft hips and muscled chest. Every time Liam pushes his hands up the jumper comes down again over his hand and covers everything. Harry keeps having to pull it up again every time it falls and it frustrates him, makes him desperate. That itch inside him— of wanting to be exposed. Wanting to be seen. Wanting to be touched.

Harry takes off his jumper. And the beanie comes off with it.

"Oh my God..." Liam's eyes go wide, looking up with a little laughs. His heart drops to his stomach before running back up. _There's Harry's haircut._

A cherub's little bouquet of curls that drops only halfway down his ears. His hair is short. So short. And Liam wants to say a million things all at once. They merge together and make for that single, silent pitch again but this time Liam can't manage speech at all. He doesn't know what to do, balls deep in Harry as he rides his dick on his lap. Liam's heart is racing and he isn't thinking and he doesn’t think he can. He pulls Harry down by the arm until his body drops on top of him. And his hands reach for Harry’s short hair. “It's so soft…” It feels like he’s touching a nerve somewhere inside him because his balls are throbbing and his groin feels tight. Running his fingers through Harry’s hair and feeling nothing but a short meadow is making his head spin. He regrets bringing him down because he wants to see him again, but Harry’s burying his face so close to his neck he knows he won’t move. Liam runs his hand down Harry’s neck, and his eyes go wide to the ceiling again. “God…” There's barely anything to grab. It’s all curly baby hairs down his smooth, naked neck. Warm, soft and pretty. It feels pretty. Liam curses and pulls out one of his feet from the leg of his jeans pooled at the ankles, and he spreads his legs and plants his feet on the mattress. And he thrusts up hard, slapping his hips against Harry’s ass as he rams his cock inside him desperately. Harry’s whimpering again, hand clutching Liam’s shirt as he arches his back, his hole swallowing up all eight inches of Liam's cock. But Liam begs him, “Let me see, Harry… please…” He presses his face into the crook of Harry’s warm, naked neck and kisses him fervently. “Please, please…”

So Harry lets him. He pushes himself off and holds his weight on one hand while the other tends to his dick, bouncing himself up and down to meet Liam’s thrusts. Eyes closed, still. Because he's nervous, or embarrassed. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” Liam’s hands go around his waist, holding him as he fucks him. “Harry… Fuck…” His dark brown eyes stare up at his face and he never wants to look away. Something so significant about him is gone and it's twists at his heart to see it missing. But Harry has to be the most beautiful person in the world to him. More of an angel now, if he wasn’t already enough before. He looks so much younger now. Brown curls fall over his eyes all messy, bouncing like springs of flowers as Liam slams his hips up into him. “Baby you’re so beautiful… Baby,” he calls him. And Harry opens his eyes, running his fingers through his short fringe so he can push it out of his eyes. Liam looks him in the eyes and Harry’s cheeks go darker, redder for the first time in the face of praise. It isn’t feeling kinky, suddenly. It’s making his cock twitch and his whole groin feel hot with something else. He swallows, lips parted, and his arms feel too weak to hold himself up. “Come here…” So he drops himself on top of Liam, sort of collapsing.

Liam’s good at this. Knowing what to do.

“You’re so pretty…” he kisses his neck, whispering against his ear. Liam grabs a fistful of that short little mane in his hand so Harry knows it’s this he’s talking about. “You look so beautiful, baby…” Liam doesn’t know if he should be talking to him like this, breathing into his skin. But he isn’t thinking, much less caring. The sweet whispers make Harry feel even better when he thrusts his cock inside him over and over, holding him close like he never wants to let him go. Liam's touch his brute and he doesn't mean for it to be; pulling Harry's hair and combing through it with hands that tremble with unforgiving desperation. “You’re gonna make me cum... You feel so fucking good on me...”

The intensity feels like it's reaching its climax. Harry starts kissing Liam as his hands reach under his shirt, touching over his stomach. He isn't toned and tight like he used to be, but he's broader now, huskier. Liam knows Harry's into that regardless, grabbing onto him to close more distance as they kiss. Harry's mouth is warm and sweet with that lingering taste of strawberry. Liam starts running his fingers through Harry's short hair again. He pulls on it and yanks his head back, and they both smile and laugh breathlessly at their own passion for each other. Liam fucks Harry so good. Harry's gasps for air come with shivers in his chest, the feeling of someone gripping his short hair for the first time making him feel dizzy. And when Liam grabs his hips and holds him down, it’s that angle that breaks Harry. Wheezing as he brings his hand down between their bodies to touch himself; a sharp gasp for every time the tip of Liam’s cock jabs his prostate. Again and again, hitting it so hard Harry feels like he’s melting from how good he feels.

“You gonna cum?” Liam can tell Harry’s close by the way he squeezes down on his cock.

“Y-Yeah…”

“Always so pretty when you cum…” Liam sounds drunk, thinking about how whiny and rosy Harry gets from his ears to his chest to cheeks when he's doused in his orgasm. “Let me see… C-Come on…”

And Harry holds himself up on one elbow, arm rested beside Liam’s head on the pillow. Their faces are aligned and just inches apart. And Liam wants him to stay there close and steady, so he pushes his fringe out of his eyes and brings his hands to cup his face, fingers tucked behind his ears. Liam's going for nearly competitive athleticism with the snap of his hips, wanting to see his effort write itself on Harry's face as his dick stretches his ass out. He wants to be the best fuck, the only person who can make Harry look like this. Because he looks like he's in love. Pupils blown, eyebrows curved up just a little. Liam has to deny something like that. Because "It's just me..." He didn't mean to say that out loud.

Hands on Liam's wrists, Harry looks into his eyes with something outside of sex. He can't help but bounce up and down on Liam's cock, wanting more and wanting it harder. His breathing is jagged, his short fringe falling over his eyes again. "Fuck..." He gasps, the tip of his cock rubbing against Liam's stomach as it leaks and aches. Pressure building inside him, his toes curling as he keeps his gaze locked into Liam's dark brown eyes. That sweet spot inside him hit again and again and—

Harry's cum lands all over Liam's shirt, spurting a thick little stream from the head of his cock as he whines, eyes shut tight as Liam watches him. Trembling, squeezing his cock inside him with every twitch. He always cums like this—like his whole body is coming undone at the seams. Maybe that's why things always get to this when he needs to feel better. Liam rubs his hand over Harry's cheek and Harry nuzzles into his touch, whimpering and kissing his palm. His lips are plush and pink with arousal, wet with spit. And his body is going limp, his breath high pitched and trembling as hard as the rest of his body does. Harry rolls his hips on Liam’s lap and thrusts forward in twitches to subdue what’s left of his spent orgasm. And he lets himself collapse, body finally spent. Liam's holding him so tight. He keeps fucking him harder, muffling his moans against Harry's naked shoulder. And Harry whimpers from being fucked so hard, still. It makes Liam kiss his feverish skin until he's leaving hickeys over it. And then he pulls out, pulling off the condom and tossing it aside as he jacks off over Harry's gaping hole. He's seen this in porn a lot. He pumps his cock; sensitive, hard, flushed. Driving himself close to the edge until he's falling over with a spurt of white from his cock. He cums all over Harry's hole, his ass. Drips down his own hand and runs down onto his knuckles.

"Here," he breathes as he brings his cum drenched hand to Harry's attention. Harry lazily lifts himself up and kisses it, lapping up the cum and swallowing it all. They both laugh a little about it— Liam a little less because his head is spinning watching and feeling Harry's tongue on his fingers as he licks his seed. Harry got him nice and clean, glassy, half lidded eyes inspecting before he cuddles down on top of Liam again.

The room feels stuffy, now. The air is thick with the smell of intimacy. It's quiet again. Liam wraps his arms around Harry's waist and rolls them over. Now Harry's on his back. He keeps his eyes half-lidded and hazy off to another part of his bedroom as he catches up on his breathing. Liam hovers over him and pets his hair. Just breathing, looking at him. Admiring is a word more faithful to the truth. Harry's red on cheeks, nose, lips, chest— everywhere. The sweat's making him look sensitive to the touch; stripped and still burning from a waning libido. To his amusement, he's reminded of Harry on stage. And he comes to miss it all for a second. Liam sighs, beads of sweat on his temples coming down to his brows. He rubs his face to shoo away the fatigue making his eyelids heavy. And he looks back down to Harry, back to petting him.

The more he comes off his high the more he's transfixed on Harry's haircut. Harry really does look different. First time they've had sex with his short hair. Liam pets him like he would a dog— or just Harry, he's demanding and adorable all the same.

"You look like when we were on the X Factor."

Harry turns his attention to him, taking a while to say, "It's shorter."

"You look cute. I like it a lot." Like he wasn't just fucking him, calling him beautiful, an angel—He's ridiculous.

"Thank you," Harry tells him sincerely, sounding sleepy.

Liam doesn't want to ask him if he feels better about it. Because he doesn't want to expect to have that kind of power. That's thinking too much of himself. He stares down at Harry under his long brown lashes. His ass his out and his soft dick is pressing against Harry's leg but he's too lazy to do anything about it right now. "You should really do that pap walk thing."

"No. I'm just... gonna lay low."

That could be a lie. Liam sighs, ruffling the curls. "Well you look really cute. Everyone wants to see you. You could go out and get some photos taken with a hat. With just... a little bit of hair showing."

"Under the beanie?"

"I'm burning the bloody beanie."

Harry laughs as he reaches his hand to scratch his head. He isn't used to touching it. He combs through it like he used to with his long hair.

"Wear something else. Preferably no hat, but. Maybe a little beret."

"Stop... telling me what to do," Harry closes his eyes and leans his head into Liam's hand. He sighs, content in just this. Naked atop his now sweat-soaked sheets, basking in the waning heat of his orgasm after getting fucked good. The feeling of contentment is mutual. But more than his orgasm, Liam is content that Harry is content.

And he smiles. He wishes he could kiss him. But it feels like the window of opportunity has closed.

“Did you really mean what you said?” Harry mumbles, now opening his eyes to blink up at Liam.

“What?”

His naked frame stirs a little on his sheets for a stretch. For a delay. Enough to buy him time while he kicks away his shyness and says in his deep raspy voice, “Just… everything. Did you mean it? When you were fucking me."

Liam's face turns red, but he doesn't want to lie. He doesn't want to hide it. “Yeah... 'Course I meant it.” And he pauses, swallowing before he tells him, "That you're beautiful, and an angel, and that you're perfect and all that stuff. I don't mean to sound all fucking Little Things about it. I just like you a lot and think a lot of like, pretty things about you."

Little Things—that dreaded song. Liam doesn't even want to think about what he did like that. Things aren't that calculated and romantic when he does things like this. Mostly he goes by instinct; by feeling and intuition. Which comes as a curse more times than it's a blessing. There's an art to getting to know Harry. But it's all touches and smells and sensations, never an equation. Things just happen and he's happy when he doesn't regret them. He should be telling Harry this instead of thinking it. But maybe he doesn't have to. Because Harry's smiling up at him like everything that shines bright in the sky. So whatever he's done and got going on, it has to be good. And that's good enough.

There's a plane Liam needs to catch tomorrow. He doesn't know if he'll be staying the night although he suspects he is.

"Can I stay the night?"

"Sure."

Now he's sure. One more thing.

"Can we make more strudels? The toaster strudels."

"Post-sex Pillsbury strudels?" Harry tries to keep a straight face but he starts to laugh. "I'd like that very much, actually."

And Liam grins. "I knew you would."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please leave kudos and let me know what you think in the comments.


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